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seancurry1 · 19 days ago

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Remember, Thou Art Barnacle

A serenity prayer for election day.

Originally posted on my website.

The Ann Selzer Iowa poll, regarded as the gold standard in all of political polling, shows Harris is up +3 in a state that Trump won by +8 in 2016 and by +9 in 2020.

And you are a barnacle.

The election better markets have Trump up by +19 (as of noon EST, 11/5/24), and bettors don’t care if people are ashamed to admit who they’re voting for—they’re in it for the money and only the money.

And you are a barnacle.

Mainstream pollsters have admitted to weighting their polls heavily in favor of Trump, to ensure they don’t end up with egg on their face like they did in 2016 and 2020 again. International whales are taking out huge bets in favor of Trump, swinging the markets, and right wing think tanks are flooding the zone with bullshit polls to artificially inflate Trump’s odds in the aggregate. And even if the popular vote is overwhelmingly for Harris, Trump’s team is already laying the narrative groundwork to support a Stop the Steal campaign that, by the time you read this, will likely already have started.

All of that is true.

And you are still a barnacle.

You are not piloting the ship. You are not the captain of the ship. You are not laying out the potential courses the ship could take, you are not deciding which course the ship will take, you are not scouting ahead.

You aren’t even a paying, ticket-holding passenger on the ship. You are a barnacle on the hull, deep underwater, and unfortunately, there isn’t really anything you can individually do to affect where this ship goes. Sorry!

This isn’t an invitation to check out, or become apathetic, or (heaven forbid) embrace doomerism. Quite the opposite: this is a reminder of who you actually are in this entire scenario, of the power you do not have, and of the power you definitely do.

After the 2016 election, some small part of myself was convinced I could change the outcome if I just posted hard enough. If I fought enough of my friends on Facebook, texted angrily, and tweeted from enough protests and rallies, somehow Trump would no longer be President-elect.

All it did was, literally, give me a rash. I got so angry for so long that my skin started to break out in hives. A doctor friend more-than-half seriously prescribed that I “get the fuck off Facebook” until my skin returned to normal. Trump was still President-elect, the next 8 years happened the way they did, and here we are today.

You’re going to hear a lot today: polls are tightening! Votes still aren’t in from this critical precinct! If these trends hold, then we can expect to know something by such-and-such a time! The race is as tight as can be! White supremacists are threatening violence to avenge a dead squirrel!

(The squirrel thing is 100% real, and my god, I really wish I was joking.)

Remember, through all of it, that you are not the captain of the ship. You are a barnacle on its hull, and there is very little you can personally do to change it at this point. You’ve already done all you can do—or maybe you haven’t, but even then, you’ve already done all you’re going to do.

And as you stress, and consider how inebriated you’re going to get, and decide on which web pages you’ll be refreshing every thirty seconds, and stress out some more, remember too that Donald Trump hasn’t ever won the popular vote in his entire miserable life. He only won the electoral college, a racist system explicitly designed to empower slaveholders in southern states, one time, and ever since then, he has lost every election he’s declared for.

More people did vote for the woman candidate the last time one ran for President, and more people have voted for the candidate of color than their opponent every single time a person of color has run for President on a major party ticket.

And women have already made up a larger share of early voting than men in this, the first general election post-Dobbs, than ever before in American history. (53% women to 44% men.)

So as you stress and consider your inebriates and say to yourself, “How can it possibly be this close?!” for the umpteenth time today, remember too that Donald Trump is a fascistic, deeply unpopular person (let alone President) backed by an even more deeply weird party, and that almost the entirety of your experience of this election is being filtered through the lens of a national, for-profit media that doesn’t care who wins, so long as you keep watching.

Remember, you are not the captain of the ship, you are not the helmsman, you are not the map-maker.

You are a barnacle.

Vote for Harris, vote Democrat in your local and state races, and trust your other barnacles.

If you like this, consider signing up for my newsletter to get more writing from me right in your inbox the second it posts: sean-curry.com/signup

#writing #election 2024 #kamala harris #serenity prayer #politics

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zarla-s · 9 months ago

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Do you get anxious whenever you start drawing comic pages? Is that connected to ending of Handplates? It's like you're trying to find any random activity to avoid drawing comics. And your usual sketches get less and less dialogue. I'm asking because I'm worried and I don't know what's happening. D:

Hmm... I haven't really thought of things in these terms? I was like "eh that can't be right" but then I did a quick look back and it does look like I've been doing solo shots or single/two panel comics for a while, haha. I've just got a lot of small ideas or images I wanted to get out recently. And I've been writing a lot of fic! Which I haven't done in a while, which is nice. Writing a fic (particularly lengthy ones, like the Hell jailbreak or the hanahaki one) is a lot more time consuming than people might think. I started the hanahaki one in early December and only just posted it a few days ago...

I was doing Handplates for such a long time, like seven+ years and all, that I'm assuming the vast majority of you out there never really knew me when I wasn't doing it. The thing is that Handplates is a massive outlier - I never did any project of that scale before, or one that updated that consistently or took that much constant effort. Never! Most of the time before when I'd start a big project I'd get distracted and never finish it, or there'd be huge hiatuses between updates (Vargas). It was super weird to have such a big project I so consistently updated and worked on. It's not common for me! I'm amazed looking back on it all that I was so committed to it when so many other ones fell flat.

Handplates took up a LOT of my time, so with it over I've been doing some other things I wouldn't have had much time for before. Playing some games, taking screencaps, writing fic, web design, little small experiments like all my pixel stuff. Just trying out different things! I don't think I'd say I was anxious about doing a comic page... it's more so that I'm just tired, I think. I was doing these huge elaborate pages that'd take days to finish for so long - now that I don't have to do it anymore, my brain just wants to relax, haha.

The reason for the slow updates on Defrag is really that I keep getting stuck lol. It's not really focused like Handplates and I still don't really know how it'll end. I keep getting stuck on what should happen next, so I keep putting it off. It's just me being a lazy writer rather than having anxiety about doing a page. |D

At least, I think that's what it is...

#asks and answers #morning8magpie #to be fair i kept getting distracted while doing the hanahaki one #case in point #been hard to focus lately!

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autisticlancemcclain · 11 months ago

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Keith presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and exhales deeply. He lets all the air trickle out of his lungs until his chest feels concave, until spots dance behind his closed eyelids, until his lips start to go numb. Then he lets go and lets the air get sucked back into him like a vacuum.

“One more try,” he whispers to himself, conscious of Lance sleeping �� finally — beside him. “One, and then we move on.”

He swipes the touchpad on his computer to wake it back up, dragging the blinking curser over the rarely-used blue ‘10’ under the Google logo. The page loads, and loads, and loads, and finally spits out the next few results.

Most of them he’s already seen before. Dozens of times. BARGAIN BALLET TICKET SUBSCRIPTION, reads one link, CLICK HERE FOR 20% OFF YOUR FIRST MONTH. Another reads, Rush Ticket Prices — Buy Now!

He’s been there. Clicked that. Priced it out. Looked at the worst possible, next-to-the-washrooms, garbage seats. Nothing. Not a single ticket within their limited budget — or even close to it.

Completely out of the realm of possibility even if they hadn’t agreed on a price limit for their Christmas gifts.

He keeps scrolling down a few pages that all advertise the same thing — a disgustingly costly subscription here, bargain-but-not-really tickets there, more scammy resell ads than one would believe possible. Even, notably, a still-active link from 1997 that Keith peruses for clicks and does not actually count towards his one-more-try limit. (It even tries to accept his Paypal, which is crazy and means that someone updated the site to accept modern payment for a show that is no longer running. Keith is so amused by the pure audacity that he has to fight the urge to buy one. Wild thing, ADHD.)

Just as he’s about to give up and buy his boyfriend yet another plant this year, a link catches his attention. It’s the very last result on page 13, with no description, no punctuation, hell, hardly even a sentence of text. Nutcracker ticket sales, it reads, for a website called ‘FeuillesBrillantAcademie.org’.

Keith shrugs. Might as well. Not like anything else has been promising.

He clicks the link and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The ugliest website he’s ever seen literally assaults his eyes — a bright blue and a neon purple, clashing in the worst possible way. It takes at least four solid seconds for his eyes to unblur enough to recognise the screen in front of him as having words rather than a solid wall of Bright And Bad. Even then, he has to squint, glasses practically touching his eyeballs.

Feuilles Brillant Academy is pleased to present the final performance of the hard-working dancers this season, is what he can finally make out. The show begins at 7 p.m. on December 23rd, tickets for $20 per person. In-person payment not accepted. Please pay via e-transfer using the link below. Call out administrative office if there are any difficulties.

Keith stares at the page for as long as his eyes can handle, then he looks up at the ceiling. (Where, he may add, he can still see the screen perfectly, because the damn thing has been burnt onto his retinae. He will never mock Matt for his web design degree again. Well, probably.)

This seems…too good to be true.

It’s outrageously cheap, for one. Keith has been looking for literal days and the cheapest he’s managed to find is $50 per person, for bad rush tickets. $20 is bonkers. For two, this is a perfect time, and nearby, as well. And there are still tickets left. Somehow.

Something is amiss.

Keith’s first thought is that it’s a prank page. But the page is buried so deeply — page thirteen of Google. The hidden archives, basically. If this is someone’s prank, it’s garbage. His second thought is that the link is a virus, which, while possible, is still kind of unlikely for the same reasons. Why on Earth would someone post something nefarious so obscurely? It doesn’t make sense. This might be one of those rare times when something isn’t too good to be true, it’s just good.

Then again. Keith just got his laptop back from the last time he fucked around and well and truly Found Out.

Time to get a second opinion.

Despite the disgustingly late hour, the phone picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, stinky,” says Pidge. Keith can hear the smile in her voice as clearly as the explosions and gunfire of Call of Duty in the background.

“Asshole.”

“Turd for brains.”

“Skidmark.”

“Rotting splatter of parking lot vomit at three in the afternoon in Arizona during high summer.”

“…Pidge, that’s disgusting.”

She snickers. “I win.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Keith freezes as Lance stirs next to him, curling his arm around Keith’s bent leg and muttering something in Spanish too fast for him to understand. Keith smiles, tucking a stray curl back under his fluffy frog-eye hairband, lingering over the scar on his temple from a skateboarding accident when they were fifteen. “I need your help.”

“Well, obviously. You’re calling me at three thirty four in the morning. Usually you’re in bed by nine because secretly you look up to Adam and emulate his habits.”

Keith flushes. “I don’t remember ordering a psych analysis, fucker.”

“Consider it a bonus! Tell Auntie Pidge about your troubles.” He can practically see the face she makes immediately after, and snorts. “Ignore that. My mouth is not attached to my brain. Carry on.”

“I need you to check out a link,” Keith says, choosing to be merciful. “It’s pretty buried and obscure, but honestly I think it’s fine —”

“Yeah, last time you thought a link was fine you fucked your shit up so bad I had to download another virus to cancel it out. I’ve never had to do that before. You fucked your laptop up so bad I’d actually never seen that kind of damage before, Kogane. And I do this for a living.”

Keith pouts. “No, you commit cyber crimes for a living.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m an angel and have never gotten so much as a speeding ticket. I am a law abiding citizen. Send over the link.”

Switching his phone to rest between his ear and shoulder, Keith does. “I need to know if the link does what it says it does.”

Pidge hums. He can hear the ding of her laptop as his e-mail goes through, and then the sounds of her clicking as she inspects the website, running it through her various programs that Keith cannot fathom for the life of him.

“What did you say you were looking for, again?”

Keith closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting it thunk gently on the thin wall under the big window, in the corner of the apartment where they’ve shoved their bed. He lets his eyes go blurry, lets the stars they stuck on the ceiling before they did anything else turn into bright green dots. They’re real constellations. The two of them spent hours on them; Lance on Keith’s shoulders, tripping and shouting and laughing.

“I need tickets,” Keith says quietly. He turns his gaze slowly to Lance, who is sleeping soundly again, who has bags under his eyes, whose hands twitch every few seconds, who frowns deeply. “And we can’t — these are the only ones I could find. That I can even pretend to afford. I need it to be —” He swallows. “I need you to tell me they’re real.”

Pidge is quiet for a moment. The only sound is her breathing, her nail tapping slowly on the edge of her screen.

“The link is exactly what it says it is.”

Keith sits up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, man.”

Keith bites back a cheer so he doesn’t wake Lance up. Hell yeah! This is perfect! Exactly what they needed! Just — a little bit of luck. A little bit.

“Thank you, Pidge,” he gushes, hurrying to punch in his information. “Seriously.”

Pidge huffs fondly. “Okay, dweebus. Gross. Go be all affectionate somewhere else.” She pauses. “Take a picture when you tell him.”

Keith smiles. “I will.”

———

It takes every inch of Keith’s willpower to keep his mouth shut for a whole three weeks.

“I Know you are hiding something, Kogane,” Lance says while walking home from classes, while curling up into him as they watch TV, while cooking, while showering. “I see it in your face.”

“It’s nearly Christmas, you dweebus,” Keith says every time, and every time he softens it with an exaggerated kiss to Lance’s cheek, one to make him laugh despite himself and shove Keith’s face away. “Of course I’m hiding something.”

But it’s eating at them both. Lance’s blatant curiously makes it that much harder for Keith to keep things hidden, to stash the tickets between the pages of his corniest romance novel that Lance won’t touch with a ten foot pole. To wait, and wait, and wait, as they set up the three-foot high discounted Christmas tree and Lance changes their sheets to the flannel ones his mother gave them.

But the days pass. Finals come and go and so does the time. And finally, finally, it comes time to crawl onto the creaky mattress, knees on either side of Lance, nose kisses down his neck, and murmur, “We’ve got plans today.”

Lance groans. “No we do not.”

Keith smiles widely. He knows Lance can feel it, because he scowls harder, trying to hide his own fondness even as he melts into Keith’s affections.

“Yes, we do. I know. I planned them.”

“Well, then, un-plan them,” Lance grouches. He turns over so he’s facing Keith, now, trying hard to glare up at him, but late afternoon sunlight bleeds into his dark brown eyes and makes them shine golden, and they are as warm and bright as the rest of him, and his hands slide up Keith’s chest, over his shoulders, brushing through his hair, to rest on his cheeks. “Come nap with me.”

Keith turns his head to press a kiss to Lance’s palm, keeping his mouth there. Lance rolls his eyes, and can no longer hide his smile. “Later. I made plans. Dress up, I’m gonna pick us up some food for the way. We’ll leave in forty minutes.”

“Ugh.”

“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, baby. I can see you eyeing the closet.”

“Shut up and get me a burrito.” He soothes the bite of his words by pulling Keith’s face closer to his, pressing their lips together softly. “Please.”

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s whipped, and Lance knows it, because he grins, pleased, and pulls Keith even closer, kisses him stronger. It takes Keith a good five minutes to muster up the willpower to pull away, and Lance knows it, smirking.

He finally manages to yank himself away, stumbling backwards towards the kitchenette of their studio. Lance pouts at him.

“Menace,” Keith says sternly, deliberately turning away as he pulls on his boots and coat. He ignores his boyfriend’s grumbling and finally makes it out the door, hustling to their favourite bodega and hoping it isn’t too crowded.

Thirty-seven minutes later, burritos secured, Keith is shoving his frozen fingers around the door handle to jimmy it open. The bodega was indeed crowded and they are indeed late. The show starts in an hour. From what Keith remembers from Lance’s recitals — and he has been to many — people who are late are people who miss the show. The ballet does not fuck around with tardiness and disruptions; if you’re late, that’s tough shit for you. Plan better.

“You’re going to eat shit,” Lance says, amused, the fourth time Keith power walks right over black ice and nearly actually dies. “Slow down, babe.”

Keith does not.

“Can’t,” he huffs, keeping a half-eye on the pavement. A tourist walks into him, shoving him into Lance, who takes the opportunity to slide his hand into Keith’s back pocket and wink at him when his cheeks colour.

“Why can’t we slow down? Where are we going?”

“It’s like you don’t know what surprise means.”

“I do know. I also know that if I annoy anyone long enough they’ll snap so I’ll shut up.”

“Nah. I like it when you talk.”

He’d meant it as somewhat of a comeback, as a jab back to Lance’s teasing. But suddenly Lance stops, spine going rigid, something like shock flirting across his face for half a millisecond before he blinks it away and moves again. It happens so fast that Keith would almost be convinced he’d imagined it, except Lance’s cheeks are crimson.

Keith smiles. “Lance.”

“Shut up.”

“Babydoll.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m barely sayin’ anything, baby.”

“You are so fuckin — gay, you know that? God. Who fuckin — who says shit like that? Who on this Earth?”

Keith laughs, bending down to kiss right below Lance’s ear, to feel his flushed skin warm to frozen tip of his nose.

“You are so easily flattered.”

“Easily flatter this dick. How about that. Fuckin. Jerk.”

He lets Lance grouch at him, pleased and embarrassed about it, as he pulls them along the overcrowded streets. He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes ‘til the show starts, thirteen minutes ‘til they get there. Hopefully.

“Are we almost there? It’s cold and these shoes are pinchy.”

“I told you to wear comfortable shoes!”

“You told me to dress up! I can do one of those things, Akira!”

At the seven minute mark Keith starts running. Lance, surprisingly, doesn’t complain — a grin pulls at his sharp features, actually, and he wraps their hands together and runs faster, despite not knowing where they’re going. Every time they bump into someone in a suit he laughs. He laughs harder when they curse at him. Keith has to fight to keep his head in the game, to keep running, to not stop where he’s standing and watch Lance laugh for hours and hours and hours. It’s been too long.

He nearly pulls Lance’s arm out of his socket when he stops then abruptly, shouting “Here! Here! We’re here!” and pulling him inside a well-kept brownstone.

“Where’s…here?” Lance wonders, taking in the well-salted walkway and pretty red-and-green decorations all over the aged brick.

Keith doesn’t answer. “Close your eyes.”

Lance narrows his eyes. Keith makes his expression as wide and pleading as possible, and in seconds Lance caves, much to Keith’s satisfaction.

“You’re a pain in my neck.”

Keith kisses him quickly and chastely. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t let me walk into anything.”

Satisfied that Lance won’t peek, Keith shuffles them over to the box office, holding out their tickets. The stewardess smiles at him, scanning them, eyes twinkling at Keith wordless plea for her to keep the secret, and gestures towards a grand set of doors.

“Up the stairs, to your left, seat and row on your ticket,” she murmurs. “Enjoy the show.”

Keith nods his thanks and rushes them off.

“This sounds very fancy,” Lance observes as their shoes click on the — literally marble, how the hell were these tickets $20 — floors. “Dangerously so.”

Keith shrugs. “Perhaps.”

“…Not to be. A bummer. But please tell me you remembered our budget, Keith.”

“I did, Lance. I swear.”

Lance relaxes into him, and Keith realises for the first time how tense he was. He winces to himself. He probably could have made things a tad less stressful and still kept the surprise. He’ll remember that for next year.

“Okay, good. I trust you.”

They barely make it to their seats in time. Keith’s butt barely makes contact with the cushioned chair before the lights dim and the orchestra starts tuning, the rest of the audience lapsing into almost immediate silence.

Lance inhales sharply. “Keith…?”

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”

Lance does, and they’re wide, and his mouth drops open, slightly, and for a moment he just stares, frozen, at the stage and the lights and the set, the familiar set, as the dim light casts shadows onto his face. The orchestra’s tuning note reaches its satisfying peak, harmonizing as one sound, and Keith’s full attention is on the lines of Lance’s face, the set of his jaw, the curves of his cheekbones.

“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly.

Before he can say anything else, before Lance can say anything else, the familiar sound of pointe shoes tapping delicately across the stage steals Keith’s attention. He turns his eyes to the stage, watching the dancers strut on the stage, and — stops.

He leans forward, squinting.

What?

Keith is…very familiar with the Nutcracker. He’s grown up alongside Lance’s family since he was eight years old. He’s been to more recitals than he can count. He’s been dragged to more performances than he can ever remember. Lance has lived and breathed and loved ballet his whole damn life, for the entire time Keith has known him, and that love bled well outside of the studio, has lasted even after he aged out of the program last year. Keith knows how the Nutcracker begins, and nothing about the program said this one was supposed to be any different.

Half of the dancers walking onstage are significantly shorter than they should be.

Now he knows damn well that there are kids in the Nutcracker. The main character is a kid. That’s the whole deal.

But there is not one adult on that stage right now. Hell, not even a teenager.

Keith looks down at the ticket — Feuilles Brillant Academy. He looks back at the stage. He looks at the other audience members — lots and lots of people with camcorders. And other small children.

Keith sinks into his chair, head in his hands.

His dumb ass bough a ticket to a children’s ballet recital.

Lord above.

“Lance, I am so sorry,” he whispers, “I was so caught up in the ticket being in budget I didn’t bother actually, like, looking deeper into things, this is totally — Lance?”

Keith leans forward in alarm, hands immediately falling on Lance’s knee, on his back. His shoulders shake and his hands are pressed to his eyes.

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry,” Keith says desperately, embarrassment replaced with panic. Everything feels like it’s crashing down around him, as dramatic as that is. He’d been so excited for this. Now it’s a whole mess. “I didn’t mean to — fuck things up, shit, we can leave.”

Lance shakes his head. Blindly, he reaches over the grasps Keith’s hand, holding tightly. His own hand is damp from his tears.

“No, no, it’s — perfect,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I —”

His chin trembles, and more tears spill over his cheeks. As the music swells along to the climax of the first dance, Lance lifts the armrest separating their seats, half crawling over Keith until his head is tucked in the crook of Keith’s neck, arms folded between their chests, hands clutching at the fabric of his sweater. His voice is wet with tears and soaked in an emotion Keith can’t quite name, an almost — relief.

“It’s been so long. I didn’t want to �� I thought I wouldn’t be able to do this again. I wouldn’t let myself think about it.”

Keith lets a huge, relieved exhale, sagging forward. He wraps himself more comfortably around Lance’s frame, squeezing him back, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple.

Growing up has been…hard. For the both of them.

They’d been told by everyone who knew them that they were being stupid and reckless. Keith has been promised that they won’t last more than two years by almost every grownup he’s ever known. Even his own brother had sighed his trepidation when Keith told him, stubborn and bold-faced, that he was moving in with Lance, that they were going to start their lives together the second they pulled off their caps and gowns, that they were ready for the next step. That they were eighteen and ready to face the world.

“Sacrifices,” Shiro had warned, “are going to be half your life now. It’s not that I think you can’t, Keith. I just. There’s a reason people don’t move in with their highschool sweetheart they summer after they graduate. Katy Perry wrote a whole song about it. It’s a banger.”

Keith hates it when his brother is right, and this time he was right about so many things in consecutive order. Living on your own is hard. Learning to live with someone else is harder. Doing it in a city far away from home, while balancing school and work and rent and groceries, is the hardest.

“I miss dance,” Lance croaks, and Keith closes his eyes and breathes deeply and holds Lance tighter.

He knows Lance misses dance. He knows that he hasn’t so much as listened to a ballet since they moved to New York, unless it’s in the dead of night, and he thinks Keith is asleep, and he puts in his headphones and moves their furniture as silently as he can to the edges of their tiny ass studio apartment and laces up his falling-to-pieces pointe shoes and dances like the very act of it is tearing him apart, and cries the whole time. And then stashes his shoes in the bottom of his gym bag and crawls back into bed and pretends again in the morning that he left his pointes back in Arizona. And Keith looks away and lets him because school is already twenty thousand a year and in no shape or form can they afford that and money to rent a studio.

But Keith can give him this. For a little bit, maybe, even if it’s little kids with handmade costumes pirouetting across a stage.

“I know, bluebell.”

Lance exhales, shaky, breath ghosting across Keith’s collarbones, and finally turns back towards the stage, keeping tucked under Keith’s chin. The kids dancing as the Snow Queen’s ladies-in-waiting are — three years old, maybe. At most four. They keep twirling right into each other like clumsy little bumblebees. It’s maybe the cutest thing Keith has ever seen in his entire life, and what’s better is the tiny smile that graces Lance’s face, despite the tears, growing bigger every time one of them wobbles back up to their feet and prances on, oblivious.

They watch the rest of the play in silence, Lance hands entwining with his sometime around the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy and holding fast. They stand and clap as loudly as the gathered parents, louder even, at curtain call, as each kid jumps and twirls across the stage to thrown roses and cheering. It’s adorable.

They’re among the first to walk out, because the majority of the crowd surges towards backstage to collect their kid, so the walk is blessedly unrushed. They take their time, observing the pictures of grinning ballerinas that line the walls and numerous awards on endless shelves. Keith is filled with a deep and strong longing, a strange feeling of coming home — years of waiting on plastic chairs for Lance to finish solo practice when they were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Of taking his boots off at the door and quietly sneaking in the back of the studio, ducking away from other dancers’ boring stares, to watch Lance shine under the studio lights, reflected a thousand times by mirrored walls. Of the smell of lemon cleaner and polished hardwood floors and satin.

He notices a poster on the wall, among dozens of drawings and pictures of intricate sets, and freezes.

“Lance,” he says, tilting his head, “look.”

At the end of a hallway, right next to a door, is a hand-painted banner, reading: WE’LL MISS YOU, MISS RAULA! HAPPY RETIREMENT!

He squeezes Lance’s hand. “I bet they’re looking for a replacement.”

Lance stares at the poster for a long time. “You think?”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt to shoot them an e-mail.”

Smiling, Lance stops them in the hallway, puts his hands on Keith’s shoulders, stands on his tiptoes, and kisses him, long and sweet and loving.

“I’m already in a pretty tight spot now,” he murmurs, still standing so close to Keith and smelling so sweet that he has trouble focusing on his words, “‘cause this is already kind of the best Christmas gift ever. If that ends up being true I’m never topping you again.”

Keith laughs, suddenly, not expecting the turn, and Lance grins, pulling Keith down to him and kissing him again. It’s less of a kiss and more of a press of smiles, a clack of teeth, a shared laugh.

“I love you, Lance. Merry Christmas. I will be the Gift Giving King forever.”

“Shut up, goober.” He lifts Keith’s arm, tucking himself under it as they walk back out into the snowy December night. “I love you too.”

———

based on this post (third slide)

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watchnrant · 3 months ago

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Quake: Veil of Deception #3 – Echoes of Deception

The rain had finally let up, leaving Madripoor cloaked in a damp, eerie silence. The streets, now slick with rainwater, reflected the faint glow of early dawn. Daisy Johnson, aka Quake, sat on the edge of her safe house, the city sprawled out below her. The usual noise of the city was muted, allowing her thoughts to echo in the quiet morning air.

Daisy’s mind was a tangled web of memories and doubts. The legend of the stone statue she had seen at the auction haunted her thoughts. The tale of a man consumed by his ambition, driven to ruin by his desire for power, resonated more deeply with her than she cared to admit. As she stared at the city below, she wondered if she, too, was on a path that could lead to her downfall. Was she, like that man, destined to be consumed by her own drive to uphold the legacy of S.H.I.E.L.D.?

But the sting of betrayal by S.H.I.E.L.D. cut even deeper. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been her home, her family, and now it seemed that family had seen her as a threat. The thought gnawed at her, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. How many times had she put her life on the line for them? How many times had she trusted them with everything she had, only to discover they had a contingency plan in place to neutralize her if she ever became too powerful? The realization left her feeling isolated, hurt, and more determined than ever to uncover the truth.

Her emotions surged—a mixture of hurt, anger, and a deep sense of loss. Yet, it was this very pain that hardened her resolve. Daisy quickly shook off the thought. There was no time to dwell on the past; Madripoor’s shadows were closing in, and she had to stay focused on the mission. The coordinates she had pulled from the data chip were her next lead. With a renewed sense of determination, she stood up and prepared for the day ahead. She would find out who was behind all of this—and they would answer for what they had done.

Navigating the labyrinthine alleys of Madripoor, Daisy made her way to the coordinates she had uncovered. The location was deep within the city’s most dangerous district, a place where even the most hardened mercenaries dared not linger. The building she found herself in front of was decrepit, its windows boarded up, and its walls cracked and peeling. It seemed abandoned, but Daisy knew better than to trust appearances in this city.

The scent of decay and mildew filled the air as she entered, her senses heightened by the oppressive atmosphere. Every creak of the floorboards, every echo of her footsteps, seemed amplified in the eerie silence. Signs of recent activity caught her eye—footprints in the dust, a door left slightly ajar, the faint hum of electricity. The tension in the air was palpable, almost suffocating.

Her heart pounded as she followed the clues deeper into the building. She reached a locked door at the end of a long hallway, its surface marked with a faded S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem. Daisy took a deep breath and used her seismic powers to gently vibrate the lock, disabling the mechanism without triggering any alarms. The door creaked open, revealing a small room filled with outdated S.H.I.E.L.D. equipment, dusty but functional.

In the center of the room was a table, and on that table was a single file folder. The label read “Project Quake.” Daisy hesitated for a moment before reaching for the folder, her hand trembling slightly. She knew that whatever was inside could change everything she thought she knew.

As she began to read the documents inside, the weight of betrayal settled in her chest like a stone. Project Quake wasn’t just a S.H.I.E.L.D. initiative—it was a contingency plan, a failsafe designed to neutralize agents with seismic abilities, including herself. The project had been classified at the highest levels, kept secret even from most of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s leadership.

Each page she turned felt like a knife twisting deeper into old wounds. Schematics for devices capable of dampening or even completely nullifying her powers, reports on potential targets—other agents who were considered threats due to their abilities—filled the file. The final page was the most chilling—a profile of Daisy herself, marked with a single word: “Activate.”

Daisy’s hands shook as she absorbed the implications. S.H.I.E.L.D., the organization she had dedicated her life to, had seen her as a potential threat. The trust she had placed in them felt like a betrayal now, and the weight of that betrayal threatened to crush her. Anger welled up inside her, mingling with the hurt, fueling her resolve. But she couldn’t afford to lose focus. There was more at stake here, and she needed to know who else was involved.

As she pulled herself together, Daisy noticed something odd. One of the devices mentioned in the files was missing from the room—a portable power dampener. Her mind raced as she tried to piece together the puzzle. If the Power Broker had access to this technology, it could explain how they had been able to stay one step ahead of her. But why was the file left here for her to find? Was this another trap, or was someone trying to warn her?

Meanwhile, across the city, Sharon Carter sat in her office, reviewing a live feed from the building Daisy was in. Her expression was calm, but beneath the surface, a storm of conflicting emotions brewed. Everything was going according to plan, or so it seemed. She turned to Rook, who was standing nearby, awaiting orders.

“She found it,” Sharon said, her voice measured. “Make sure she doesn’t leave that building without an escort.”

Rook nodded and left the room to carry out her orders. Sharon leaned back in her chair, her mind already working through the next steps. Daisy was getting closer to the truth, but Sharon was confident that she could keep her in check. She had been playing this game for too long to lose now.

But as she watched the feed, a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. Daisy had proven to be more resourceful than she anticipated. For a moment, Sharon allowed herself to consider the possibility of failure. She remembered her days as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, the values she once held dear, and how far she had strayed from them. A pang of guilt, quickly suppressed, gnawed at her resolve. Could she really keep this up, knowing what she had become?

She quickly pushed the thought aside. There was no room for doubt, not when she was so close to achieving her goal. The Power Broker couldn’t afford to be weak, and Sharon Carter wasn’t about to let sentimentality get in the way of success. But as she refocused on the monitor, the lingering doubt remained, like an unwelcome shadow.

Back in the building, Daisy finished reviewing the files and tucked them into her jacket. She knew she needed to get out of there before the Power Broker’s forces arrived. But as she stepped into the hallway, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching from both directions. She was surrounded.

Without hesitation, Daisy activated her seismic powers, sending a shockwave through the walls, creating a temporary barrier of debris. The walls trembled, dust and debris raining down as the building groaned in protest. She sprinted down the hallway, using her powers to sense the structural weaknesses in the building. She needed to find a way out before they closed in on her.

As she rounded a corner, she came face to face with a group of heavily armed mercenaries. They didn’t waste any time, opening fire as soon as they saw her. The muzzle flashes lit up the dim corridor, and the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air. Daisy threw up a force field of vibrations, deflecting the bullets, but she knew she couldn’t hold it for long. She needed to make her move.

In a split-second decision, Daisy unleashed a concentrated quake beneath the mercenaries’ feet, causing the floor to collapse. They plunged into the darkness below, and Daisy took the opportunity to dash toward the nearest exit. But as she reached the door, she was hit by a blast of energy that sent her crashing into the wall. The impact left her ears ringing, the world spinning as she struggled to regain her footing.

Dazed, Daisy struggled to get back on her feet. She looked up to see Rook standing in the doorway, holding the missing power dampener. The device hummed ominously as Rook approached, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

“You’re not going anywhere, Quake,” Rook sneered. “The Power Broker has big plans for you.”

Daisy knew she was in trouble. The power dampener was already starting to weaken her abilities, and Rook was closing in. She needed to think fast. Summoning the last of her strength, Daisy sent a focused tremor through the floor, creating a small but powerful shockwave that knocked Rook off balance. The dampener sputtered, momentarily losing power, and Daisy’s heart raced with a mixture of desperation and hope.

Seizing the opportunity, Daisy bolted for the exit, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the effects of the dampener wearing off, but she knew she wasn’t out of the woods yet. As she burst through the door and into the open air, she realized she was in the middle of a dead-end alley. The only way out was up.

With no time to waste, Daisy used her powers to propel herself upward, scaling the side of the building in a series of leaps. The rough brickwork scraped against her hands, and the wind whipped at her face as she climbed. Behind her, she could hear Rook and the remaining mercenaries scrambling to catch up, but she didn’t look back. Her only focus was on getting as far away as possible.

As she reached the rooftop, the ledge crumbled slightly beneath her feet, sending a cascade of loose bricks tumbling down into the alley below. For a heart-stopping moment, Daisy teetered on the edge, her breath catching in her throat. But she quickly regained her balance, pulling herself up to safety.

Reaching the rooftop, Daisy took a moment to catch her breath. The city stretched out before her, a sprawling maze of lights and shadows. She knew she couldn’t stay here for long, but she needed to regroup, to figure out her next move.

As she stood on the rooftop, her thoughts raced. The Power Broker’s reach was vast, their methods cunning. But Daisy wasn’t without resources. She began to consider her options, the allies she could call upon, and the strategy she would need to take down such a powerful adversary. This wouldn’t be a battle she could fight alone; she needed to be smart, strategic, and a step ahead of the game.

The resolve within her solidified. The Power Broker might have the upper hand for now, but Daisy wasn’t the type to give up. She’d find a way to turn the tables, to expose the truth, and bring down the person behind all of this. She’d survived worse, and she’d survive this too.

With her determination renewed, Daisy disappeared into the night, her silhouette blending seamlessly into the shadows of Madripoor. The city, with all its lurking dangers and hidden truths, awaited her next move.

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cirrus-grey · 5 months ago

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Didn't know about that Corruption theory before (and didn't wanna reblog the post for spoilers) but now I'm curious, what other theories did people have while the show was still airing? I joined the fandom around 160 so anything before that is a mystery to me.

Referencing this post (beware, it has spoilers for The Magnus Protocol).

Oh goodness, so so many. Only a few that I remembered off the top of my head, but I spent some time today trawling the depths of my "magnus archives speculation/analysis" tag and found a couple more fun ones.

Most of the ones I did remember are either still popular headcanons (Web!Martin), or actually turned out to be canon (Jonah!Elias). The Gertrude one always stuck in my head because it's very silly on the surface but also draws attention to the fact of like - how was her skin still in good enough condition to wear after being buried for months? (And Lietner's too, for that matter). Was Nikola just wearing really tattered rotten shreds???

Anyway. Some that I remembered, which all relate to Martin for some reason:

Backup Archivist: Heading into the Unknowing, Elias had Martin reading statements specifically to train him to be a stand in Archivist in case Jon died. Also included sub-theories that he could end up able to compel people on his own, share the role with Jon, or take over entirely if the show pulled a bait-and-switch and Martin was the real protagonist all along.

Who's the Father?: Every single possible theory about who Martin's dad was and what implications that could have on the show, from Leitner to Elias to Peter Lukes to that one dude Peter banished to the Lonely in his statement in 159.

Schwartzwald Cousins: Albrecht von Closen says he and Clara/Carla had trouble having kids in his first statement, but in a later episode says they have two boys. Part 1 of the theory was that the kids were actually avatars who'd emerged from the mausoleum after Albrecht disturbed it, and been adopted by the childless couple. Part 2 was - well - it's canon that Gerry is descended from one of these kids. The theory was, what if Martin was descended from the other? Gerry seems to have some Eye powers linked to his heritage and upbringing, so it was speculated that Martin might turn out to have some as well and be important to either Elias's plans, or to thwarting him (this tied into the Backup Archivist theory nicely). A sub-theory was that they were significantly closer cousins, Martin's mum's maiden name had been Keay, and Martin K. Blackwood was Martin Keay Blackwood all along.

And the ones that I found in the tag (credit in brackets):

Martin’s mum was a runaway Lukas (@/centaurianthropology, here)

The lighter was linked to the Desolation (@agnesmontague) + an addition by me that I'm so proud of in hindsight - "I think the web design pretty much confirms that it’s linked to the Web, but if it’s the Desolation as well, might it be linked to the other occasions we’ve seen those two powers interact? Namely, the ever mysterious Hill Top Road?" (Here)

Another of my posts that I'm delighted to reread (here) reminded me of the many, many, "what's up with the tapes?" theories. I remember "the tapes are sent by the Web", "the tapes are sent by Elias", "the tapes are manifestated unconsciously by Jon" (my personal favorite, sadly disproven), and I think there were also some "the tapes are Gertrude's ghost" posts???

Elias was the Eye the same way Michael was the Spiral - Gertrude sacrificed him to stop the Watcher's Crown (@/statementbegins, here)

Also reading through these is reminding me that there was a stretch where we were calling the Vast and Lonely the "Void" and "Isolation", which I love.

This is just a select few posts from 2018, so there's a lot more under the tag if you're interested in looking! Link below, copy and paste into a web (lol) browser because the archive (lmao) page doesn't work on the app.

https://cirrus-grey.tumblr.com/archive/tagged/magnus%20archives%20speculation%2Fanalysis

If anyone else remembers other old theories please feel free to drop them in the notes! I know there were so many more that I don't have saved.

#ask not for whom the bell tolls #samwise1548 #the magnus archives #my magnus archives stuff #magnus archives speculation/analysis

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canmom · 1 year ago

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canmom's notes on fixing the colours

ok so if you've been following along on this blog for the last week or two i've been banging on about colour calibration. and i feel like it would be good to sum up what i've learned in a poast!

quick rundown on colour spaces

So. When you represent colour on a computer, you just have some numbers. Those numbers are passed to the monitor to tell it to turn some tiny lights up and down. The human visual system is capable of seeing a lot of colours, but your monitor can only display some of them. That's determined by its primaries, basically the exact colour* of its red, green and blue lights.

(*if you're wondering, the primaries are specified in terms of something called the CIELAB colour space, which is a model of all the different colours that humans can possibly see, devised by experiments in the early-mid 20th century where the subjects would turn lights at different frequencies up and down until they appeared visually the same. Through this, we mapped out how eyes respond to light, enabling basically everything that follows. Most human eyes tend to respond in pretty close to identical ways - of course, some people are colourblind, which adds an extra complication!)

Now, the problem we face is that every display is different. In particular, different displays have different primaries. The space in between the primaries is the gamut - the set of all colours that a display can represent. You can learn more about this concept on this excellent interactive page by Bartosz Ciechanowski.

The gamut is combined with other things like a white point and a gamma function to map numbers nonlinearly to amounts of light. All these bits of info in combination declare exactly what colour your computer should display for any given triplet of numbers. We call this a colour space.

There are various standard sets of primaries, the most famous being the ITU-R Rec.709 primaries used in sRGB, first defined in 1993, often just called the sRGB primaries - this is a fairly restricted colour space, intended to be an easy target for monitor manufacturers and to achieve some degree of colour consistency on the web (lol).

Since then, a much wider gamut called Rec.2020 has recently been defined for 'HDR' video. This is a very wide gamut, and no existing displays can actually show it in full. Besides that, there are various other colour spaces such as AdobeRGB and P3, which are used in art and design and video editing.

What you see above is something called a 'chromaticity diagram'. the coordinate system is CIE xyY with fixed Y. The curved upper edge to the shape is the line of monochromatic colours (colours created by a single frequency of light); everything other colour must be created by combining multiple frequencies of light. (Note that the colours inside the shape are not the actual colours of those points in CIE XY, they're mapped into sRGB.)

In this case, the red, green and blue dots are the primaries of my display. Since they are outside the green triangle marked sRGB, it qualifies as a 'wide gamut' display which can display more vivid colours.

Sidebar: you might ask why we didn't define the widest possible gamut we could think of at the start of all this. Well, besides consistency, the problem is that you only have so many bits per channel. For a given bit depth (e.g. 8 bits per channel per pixel), you have a finite number of possible colours you can display. Any colours in between get snapped to the nearest rung of the ladder. The upshot is that if you use a higher gamut, you need to increase the bit depth in order to avoid ugly colour banding, which means your images take up more space and take more time to process. But this is why HDR videos in Rec.2020 should always be using at least 10 bits per colour channel.

in order to display consistent colours between different computers, you need a profile of how your monitor displays colour. Yhis is something that has to be measured empirically, because even two monitors of the same model will be slightly different. You get this information by essentially taking a little gadget which has a lens and a sensitive, factory-calibrated colour meter, and holding it against your screen, then making the screen display various colours to measure what light actually comes out of it. This information is packed into a file called an ICC profile.

(Above is the one I got, the Spyder X2. I didn't put a lot of thought into this, and unfortunately it turns out that the Spyder X2 is not yet supported by programs like DisplayCal. The Spyder software did a pretty good job though.)

Wonderfully, if you have two different ICC profiles, and you want to display the same colour in each space, you can do some maths to map one into the other. So, to make sure that a picture created on one computer looks the same on another computer, you need two things: the colour space (ICC profile) of the image and the colour space (ICC profile) of the screen.

Now different operating systems handle colour differently, but basically for all three major operating systems there is somewhere you can set 'here is the icc profile for this screen'. You might think that's the whole battle: calibrate screen, get ICC profile, you're done! Welcome to the world of consistent colour.

Unfortunately we're not done.

the devil in the details

The problem is the way applications tell the operating system about colour is... spotty, inconsistent, unreliable. Applications can either present their colours in a standard space called sRGB, and let the OS handle the rest - or they can bypass that entirely and just send their numbers straight to the monitor without regard for what space it's in.

Then we have some applications that are 'colour managed', meaning you can tell the application about an ICC profile (or some other colour space representation), and it will handle converting colours into that space. This allows applications to deal with wider colour gamuts than sRGB/Rec.709, which is very restricted, without sacrificing consistency between different screens.

So to sum up, we have three types of program:

programs which only speak sRGB and let the OS correct the colours

programs which aren't colour aware and talk straight to the monitor without any correction (usually games)

programs which do colour correction themselves and talk straight to the monitor.

That last category is the fiddly one. It's a domain that typically includes art programs, video editors and web browsers. Some of them will read your ICC profile from the operating system, some have to be explicitly told which one to use.

Historically, most monitors besides the very high end were designed to support sRGB colours and not much more. However, recently it's become easier to get your hands on a wide gamut screen. This is theoretically great because it means we can use more vivid colours, but... as always the devil is in the details. What we want is that sRGB colours stay the same, but we have the option to reach for the wider gamut deliberately.

Conversely, when converting between colour spaces, you have to make a decision of what to do with colours that are 'out of gamut' - colours that one space can represent and another space can't. There's no 'correct' way to do this, but there are four standard approaches, which make different tradeoffs of what is preserved and what is sacrificed. So if you look at an image defined in a wide colour space such as Rec.2020, you need to use one of these to put it into your screen's colour space. This is handled automatically in colour managed applications, but it's good to understand what's going on!

(*You may notice a difference in games even if they're not colour managed. This is because one of the things the calibration does is update the 'gamma table' on your graphics card, which maps from numeric colour values to brightness. Since the human eye is more sensitive to differences between dark colours, this uses a nonlinear function - a power law whose exponent is called gamma. That nonlinear function also differs between screens, and your graphics card can be adjusted to compensate and make sure everyone stays on the standard gamma 2.2. Many games offer you a slider to adjust the gamma, as a stopgap measure to deal with the fact that your computer's screen probably isn't calibrated.)

For what follows, any time you need the ICC profile, Windows users should look in C:\Windows\System32\spool\drivers\color. MacOS and Linux users, see this page for places it might be. Some applications can automatically detect the OS's ICC profile, but if not, that's where you should look.

on the web

Theoretically, on the web, colours are supposed to be specified in sRGB if not specified otherwise. But when you put an image on the web, you can include an ICC profile along with it to say exactly what colours to use. Both Firefox and Chrome are colour-managed browsers, and able to read your ICC profile right from the operating system. So an image with a profile should be handled correctly in both (with certain caveats in Chrome).

However, Firefox by default for some reason doesn't do any correction on any colours that don't have a profile, instead passing them through without correction. This can be fixed by changing a setting in about:config: gfx.color_management.mode. If you set this to 1 instead of the default 2, Firefox will assume colours are in sRGB unless it's told otherwise, and correct them.

Here is a great test page to see if your browser is handling colour correctly.

Chrome has fewer options to configure. by default it's almost correctly colour-managed but not quite. So just set the ICC on your OS and you're as good as it's gonna get. The same applies to Electron apps, such as Discord.

To embed a colour profile in an image, hopefully your art program has the ability to do this when saving, but if not, you can use ImageMagick on the command line (see below). Some websites will strip metadata including ICC profile - Tumblr, fortunately, does not.

For the rest of this post I'm going to talk about how to set up colour management in certain programs I use regularly (Krita, Blender, mpv, and games).

in Krita

Krita makes it pretty easy: you go into the settings and give it the ICC profile of your monitor. You can create images in a huge variety of spaces and bit depths and gamma profiles. When copying and pasting between images inside Krita, it will convert it for you.

The tricky thing to consider is pasting into Krita from outside. By default, your copy-paste buffer does not have colour space metadata. Krita gives you the option to interpret it with your monitor's profile, or as sRGB. I believe the correct use is: if you're copying and pasting an image from the web, then sRGB is right; if you're pasting a screenshot, it has already been colour corrected, you should use 'as on monitor' so Krita will convert it back into the image's colour space.

in Blender

Blender does not use ICC profiles, but a more complicated system called OpenColorIO. Blender supports various models of mapping between colour spaces, including Filmic and ACES, to go from its internal scene-referred HDR floating-point working space (basically, a space that measures how much light there is in absolute terms) to other spaces such as sRGB. By default, Blender assumes it can output to sRGB, P3, etc. without any further correction.

So. What we need to do is add another layer after that which takes the sRGB data and corrects it for our screen. This requires something called a Lookup Table (LUT), which is basically just a 3D texture that maps colours to other colours. You can generate a LUT using a program called DisplayCal, which can also be used for display calibration - note that you don't use the main DisplayCal program for this, but instead a tool called 3DLUT Maker that's packaged along with it. see this Stack Overflow thread for details.

Then, you describe in the OpenColorIO file how to use that LUT, defining a colour space.

The procedure described in the thread recommends you set up colour calibration as an additional view transform targeting sRGB. This works, but strictly speaking it's not a correct use of the OpenColorIO model. We should also set up our calibrated screen as an additional display definition, and attach our new colour spaces to that display. Also, if you want to use the 'Filmic' View Transform with corrected colours (or indeed any other), you need to define that in the OpenColorIO file too. Basically, copy whatever transform you want, and insert an extra line with the 3D LUT.

Here's how it looks for me:

in games (using ReShade)

So I mentioned above that games do not generally speaking do any colour correction beyond the option to manually adjust a gamma slider. However, by using a post-processing injection framework such as ReShade, you can correct colours in games.

If you want to get the game looking as close to the original artistic intent as possible, you can use the LUT generator to generate a PNG lookup table, save it in the Reshade textures folder, then you load it into the LUT shader that comes packaged with Reshade. Make sure to set the width, height and number of tiles correctly or you'll get janked up results.

However... that might not be what you want. Especially with older games, there is often a heavy green filter or some other weird choice in the colour design. Or maybe you don't want to follow the 'original artistic intent' and would rather enjoy the full vividness your screen is capable of displaying. (I certainly like FFXIV a lot better with a colour grade applied to it using the full monitor gamut.)

A 3D Lookup Table can actually be used for more than simply calibrating colour to match a monitor - it is in general a very powerful tool for colour correction. A good workflow is to open a screenshot in an image editor along with a base lookup table, adjust the colours in certain ways, and save the edited lookup table as an image texture; you can then use it to apply colour correction throughout the game. This procedure is described here.

Whatever approach you take, when you save screenshots with Reshade, it will not include any colour information. If you want screenshots to look like they do in-game when displayed in a properly colour managed application, you need to attach your monitor's ICC profile to the image. You can do this with an ImageMagick command:

magick convert "{path to screenshot}" -strip -profile "{path to ICC profile}" "{output file name}.webp"

This also works with TIFF and JPEG; for some reason I couldn't get it to work with PNG (you generate a PNG but no colour profile is attached.)

It's possible to write a post-save command in ReShade which could be used to attach this colour space info. If I get round to doing that, I'll edit into this post.

video

In MPV, you can get a colour-corrected video player by setting an appropriate line in mpv.conf, assuming you're using vo=gpu or vo=gpu-next (recommended). icc-profile-auto=yes should automatically load the monitor ICC profile from the operating system, or you can specify a specific one with icc-profile={path to ICC profile}.

For watching online videos, it seems that neither Firefox nor Chrome applies colour correction, even though the rest of the browser is colour-managed. If you don't want to put up with this, you can open Youtube videos in MPV, which internally downloads them using Youtube-DL or yt-dlp. This is inconvenient! Still haven't found a way to make it colour-corrected in-browser.

For other players like VLC or MPC-HC, I'm not so familiar with the procedure, you'll need to research this on your own.

what about HDR?

HDR is a marketing term, and a set of standards for monitor features (the VESA DisplayHDR series), but it does also refer to a new set of protocols around displaying colour, known as Rec. 2100. This defines the use of a 'perceptual quantiser' function in lieu of the old gamma function. HDR screens are able to support extreme ranges of brightness using techniques like local dimming and typically have a wider colour gamut.

If your screen supports it, Windows has a HDR mode which (I believe) switches the output to use Rec.2100. The problem is deciding what to do with SDR content on your screen (which is to say most things) - you have very little control over anything besides brightness, and for some reason Windows screws up the gamma. Turning on HDR introduced truly severe colour banding all over the shop for me.

My colorimeter claims to be able to profile high brightness/hdr screens, but I haven't tested the effect of profiling in HDR mode yet. There is also a Windows HDR calibration tool, but this is only available on the Microsoft store, which makes it a real pain to set up if you've deleted that from your operating system in a fit of pique. (Ameliorated Edition is great until it isn't.)

Anyway, if I get around to profiling my monitor in HDR mode, I will report back. However, for accurate SDR colour, the general recommendation seems to be to simply turn it off. Only turn it on if you want to watch content specifically authored for HDR (some recent games, and HDR videos are available on some platforms like Youtube). It's a pain.

is this all really worth the effort?

Obviously I've really nerded out about all this, and I know the likely feeling you get looking at this wall of text is 'fuck this, I'll just put up with it'. But my monitor's gamma was pretty severely off, and when I was trying to make a video recently I had no idea that my screen was making the red way more saturated and deep than I would see on most monitors.

If you're a digital artist or photographer, I think it's pretty essential to get accurate colour. Of course the pros will spend thousands on a high end screen which may have built in colour correction, but even with a screen at the level I'm looking at (costing a few hundred quid), you can do a lot to improve how it looks 'out of the box'.

So that's the long and short of it. I hope this is useful to someone to have all of this in one place!

I don't know if we'll ever reach a stage where most monitors in use are calibrated, so on some level it's a bit of a fool's errand, but at least with calibration I have some more hope that what I put in is at least on average close to what comes out the other end.

#colour #color #color management #blender #krita #firefox #chrome #mpv #3dcg

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nephriteknight · 3 months ago

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well i may not have done my homework today, but i did make this! (pdf version here [edit: new link which includes the Hebe])

every single vault, with detailed info about obstacles (in the right order!) and rewards. so many tiny little images. this project was fueled entirely by my hatred of wikia and their awful web design. seriously their wikis take so long to load, then a pop up ad moves you down a page, then the whole site just goes blue and you have to close the tab and start over.

(note that this may not be as thorough as it could be; i'm currently in the middle of my first medium run and have avoided spoilers for all the DLCs i haven't tried yet. updates possibly pending! also i opted not to include rites except for the rite intercalate, since i feel like i usually find the most useful rites pretty easily and it was getting real cluttered)

i showed this to my roommate and he said "i'm realizing you and i have very different versions of fun"

...ah damn i forgot the Hebe. i'm just gonna post this and fix it later lol

#if you think this is excessive you should see my book of hours spreadsheets #i know there's a more image-based version of this on the wiki and its very cool!#but its a bit pixellated on there and this is more intuitive for me personally #cultist simulator

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coratorium · 1 year ago

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let's pretend for a second this is somebody else's post and not my own post on my dash. this part shittily circled in red with a screenshot tool pen is the only thing on this page i care about. icon, url, post body, tags. that is the only part of the dash i want to see.

you have managed to compress it smaller and smaller on the page while fitting in more and more meaningless garbage i try to tune out. you've made the dash feel cramped while presenting less information on it! who thought this was a good idea??

this ui rework looks like shit

#i hate the mobile-first web page design aesthetic #there is so much fucking wasted space on the average web page now #just tons of blank voids on the sides while everything is crammed into a single big column in the middle because that's what works on mobil

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cboffshore · 4 days ago

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I believe you're a Cyren fan so... Any thoughts about her?

Short answer: If Skybound is the missed opportunities/fridge horror capital of the world, Cyren isn't necessarily the most popular tourist spot - she's more like the little hole in the wall cafe you encounter by accident after you get separated from your tour group, and then you have the single best latte of your life there, but you can't find the place the next time you're in town. That is to say: yes, I do think about her, a lot, and I think she is criminally underappreciated, but I'm not too sure how to articulate it.

I'll try, though.

Long answer:

My knee-jerk reaction to someone mentioning Cyren is to think, oh, she was so cool! she had a kickass power and it's so sad we never got to see her use it. This, naturally, then reminds me of how she got that power, and then whoops! There we go down that whole mental rabbit hole.

A decent chunk of why I like Skybound so much is because what it doesn't directly say is frequently just as (if not more!) important as what it shows us directly, but only when those two work in tandem. I think Cyren is the single best - and most tragic - example of that.

Anon, I assume you know Cyren's backstory, but for anyone else seeing this who may need a refresher: Cyren's a Sky Pirate whose wish was to become a great singer. Nadakhan grants this by enchanting her voice to send listeners into a trance (and forgive me but I can't remember if it's just when she's singing or if it includes speech, but to be fair, it's not like they ever clarified it onscreen so I presume it's both), which is apparently a useful tool for making raids very easy... but, as you might guess, not great for performance reasons. Imagine showing up to see Fall Out Boy and passing out before Patrick can even finish asking if he's more than you bargained for yet.

Here's the problem: We never find this out in Skybound itself. Cyren does not have a Tall Tale, and if she did, it would be about as useful as the others anyway. Cyren never even speaks or has her name spoken. This information comes only from one of those old profile flavor text entries on the LEGO website at the time (which someone turned into the opening chunk of her history page on the wiki but I can no longer find in its original form). Later on I think it shows up in a few character dictionary type places, but that's a tangent - point is, this is another example of the secondary material doing wild shit to the main stuff.

A couple of things about this:

I can absolutely understand why they didn't show this off in the show - that's a game breaking power. You wouldn't have much of a fight scene to animate if you could just enforce nap time on everyone who forgot earplugs.

I would LOVE to know the order of operations here. Cyren's named on the set boxes, so I suppose they got pretty far into the process of establishing her, but... when did they scrap her? Did they ever scrap her? Was she even supposed to have that backstory, or did a web designer have a creative writing itch to scratch and a better understanding of the season's themes than the Hagemans seemed to? Was she ever supposed to do anything in the script?

Alternative to number 2, and my preferred option even though I always have to remind myself of it: why is this whole situation so much cooler with her silence?

The it girl weapon of Skybound is not the sword of souls; it's speech, and how you can use it to get what you want. Nadakhan's our entry-level example here - he tries to get his victims to say things he can reinterpret and aim back in their faces - and we see it with Jay and Nya, too. To put it very simply, Jay wants to be able to say the right thing to make Nya like him again; Nya wants to be able to say the right thing to get the world to listen to her and accept her for who she is and what she's trying to say. With those three, the key thing is that they're all able to determine what they want (even if they don't get it, of course) and tailor their speech to fit as best they can. (Obviously, this does not always work - but that starting option remains open all the time.)

Cyren does not get that. Cyren, if she speaks at all, automatically renders the listener unable to listen by sending them into a trance. The effect of her speech - no matter what she says or songs - is that she will be ignored. She's got the inverse of our leading trio: a guarantee that she will be heard long enough to influence the other party, but not the ability to choose what the influence is.

That's what makes Cyren the most gut-wrenching example of a weaponized wish in the season, at least in my eyes. She was able to use her voice to express this personal desire of hers - but it was the listener who held all the power, and heard her just long enough to pull the threads he could use, never mind what she actually meant. The end result is pretty much the exact opposite of what she asked for: a guarantee that her voice is no longer hers to use freely. To wish to be heard and appreciated and then to have your voice made so beautiful that it becomes the ultimate anesthetic.... ouch. OUCH.

In that way, I do think it's darkly, ironically perfect that Cyren never gets to speak, or climb all that far past the role of background Sky Pirate except for in the supplementary material. Again: absolutely devastating power. We wouldn't have any obstacles if they'd had it on the writer's table as an option, and without obstacles we wouldn't have had a story. She's a showstopper, literally, and it kind of fits that her power is too strong to actually be useful in the season. It's like showing up to a knife fight with a lawnmower.

And yet: we see her in action. We see Cyren a lot. Next time you watch Skybound, take a moment and count the background models in any given pirate crowd: there will only be one Cyren at a time (ETA: unless it's the Scrap n Tap scene, which plagues me for multiple reasons, including breaking my tidy absolutes in this ask) . There's a handful of repeating character models that show up a lot, often multiple times in the same small group, but Cyren is a standout. The most important appearance of hers I can name right now is during the end of 62 when she helps drag Nya out of the hidden basement - but even then, she's working with another bland background pirate.

That balance is so, so bittersweet to me - clearly there was something in the seasonal map keeping Cyren alive. She gets named on the set boxes and her own character profile, but she doesn't get a voice; she's seldom duplicated (ETA: again, except for the Scrap n Tap crowd) but never shown at full strength.

I don't know. I don't have a great way to end this. Something something actions speak louder than words, maybe? Something something secondary text?

In short: I love Cyren. I even love that she got shorted, because it makes her seem so much deeper, somehow, and it shouldn't work - but I'll take what I can get.

#lila speaks #ninjago skybound #Ninjago Cyren #analysis freak Lila back on her bullshit #ETA to fix the S&T anomaly that was pointed out in the reblogs

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